


The Unintentional Eloper

by whopooh



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 07:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopooh/pseuds/whopooh
Summary: “Wedding bells ring for notorious flapper,”the newspaper states.What happened over the weekend when Phryne and Jack were away at the seaside? DoesThe Globeknow the truth? And why didn't they tell any of their friends?This fic is for the November trope, "An (Un)Expected Marriage". It is also for Quiltingmom's birthday, as she has earlier urged me to simply marry these two in my next fic. I wish you a happy, happy birthday, dear Quiltingmom!





	The Unintentional Eloper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quiltingmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiltingmom/gifts).



“Come on, Jack, hurry!” 

Phryne is her usual impatient self as she watches Jack retrieve luggage from the backseat of her car. The evening is dark and late, and she’s eager to get inside after the long day’s drive. They’ve just come home from a seaside resort where they’ve spent a long, romantic weekend together – a treat after having been separated for several weeks over a case. It had been planned by Phryne, and the result had been beyond expectation. 

Finally, Jack has a parasol stuck under his arm and a firm grip on two trunks and a bag, so Phryne can close the door to the Hispano-Suiza and lead the way to the house. Outside Wardlow’s front door she stops and turns toward him. He is helpless and his hands fully occupied, and she cannot keep from taking advantage of that, reaching up to grab him by his lapels to give him a lingering kiss.

When she lets go, he looks equally flustered and pleased.

“No chance you’d let me put my burden down first?” he asks.

“There’s no time,” she answers and kisses him again. He harrumphs into her mouth, but still willingly succumbs to her lips. 

“Always in such a hurry, this wife of mine,” he complains jokingly as she lets him go.

“I fear it’s my husband who’s simply too slow on the uptake.” She gives him the most mischievous look from under her lashes. His answering smile is small and crooked.

She turns to open the door, only to find it already open, Dot and Mr Butler standing in the doorway to great them. Mr Butler is his normal, professional, and cordial self. Dot has a surprised look and manages to shut her open mouth almost immediately when she realises their eyes are on her.

“Welcome home, Miss. Good evening, Inspector,” Mr Butler says. 

As Jack follows Phryne inside, the butler liberates him from his burden so he can take off hat and coat. 

“Dot,” Phryne says as she enters the parlour with her companion in tow. “Anything important happening while we were gone?”

“Nothing much,” Dot answers. “Jane telephoned; she said she would try again tomorrow. There was an answer to your question about marriage licences… for your case.” Dot’s voice involuntary turns into a question on the last words.

Phryne nods as she looks through the post assembled on a sideboard for her.

“Excellent, Dot,” she says with a warm smile.

“And you, Miss?” Dot asks, almost casually. “Anything important happening while you were away?”

“Hm?” Phryne asks, half her attention on the post. “Oh, no, nothing out of the expected.” A small smile spreads over her face without herself noticing it.

Dot watches her mistress intently, wondering if she should rephrase the question, but decides to let it be.

“I’ll be off for the evening, then,” she says instead. 

Dot walks home the short distance to her own house, pondering what she had heard from Miss Phryne’s and the Inspector’s lips. Can it be? Have they finally taken that last step? It has already been more than a year since the Inspector followed Miss Fisher to England in the most unexpectedly romantic way; Dot smiles to herself at the thought. At the same time, she can’t shake the feeling of annoyance for not having realised sooner. She had really thought she knew her Miss better than this.

 

***

 

The next morning, Phryne sleeps in. Jack has left early for the station and she enjoys spreading herself out over the whole large bed, well rested and pleasantly sore from a rather late night of picking up where their intense weekend had ended. She hums contentedly, imagining Jack still being there, morning tousled and warm. They don’t have nearly enough mornings like that; between work and Jack keeping up his own place in Richmond, there are only few chances of slowly waking up together. 

She ignores the ring of the telephone downstairs. If there’s something urgent, Mr B will surely wake her. After a while the telephone rings again, and a few minutes later again; an unusual amount of activity this time of the day. She ponders if she should go down and see what the matter is when she hears a polite knock on her bedroom door. 

“Mrs Stanley is here to see you, Miss.” Mr Butler’s voice carries through the door. 

Phryne rolls her eyes, but answers rather perkily, “Tell her I’ll be down shortly.”

“I’ll serve her some tea and fresh scones,” the butler answers.

Scones. That means Phryne will have time to dress, albeit not as thoroughly and impeccably as she prefers to when she’s about to meet Aunt Prudence, who must surely have been a feared warrior in one of her earlier lives. At least Phryne won’t have to meet her in a dressing gown—a lack of sartorial armour would give Aunt P too large an advantage in their battle of wits and morality. She chooses a leisurely ensemble in black and cream and climbs down the stairs to the parlour. Hearing her, Mr B pours her a cup of tea and retreats from the room.

“Well, Phryne!” Aunt Prudence exclaims, flustered. “I can hardly believe my ears!”

“Aunt P,” Phryne says – rather calmly, as a flustered aunt is not a particularly unique occurrence in her life. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Have you not read the paper today?” Prudence says. “Your secret is out.”

Phryne sips her tea. “What secret is that?”

“I don’t understand how you could do it without telling me, Phryne. I am the closest family you have here in Melbourne.” 

Her voice is hurt, more deeply than her usual complaints. She rummages in her bag and brings up an issue of _The Globe_ , opens it up and pushes it towards her niece, pointing an accusing finger to one of the items. There is even a photo, a hitherto unseen photo from the series taken at last year’s tennis match. 

Phryne reads aloud:

_“Wedding bells ring for notorious flapper.”_

Phryne flicks her gaze to assess her aunt’s reddened complexion before reading the rest. 

_“The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher may have resisted men’s charms more than most, but finally, she has found her match. Sources tell the column Miss Fisher eloped this weekend together with her beau, an Inspector Robinson of the Victorian Constabulary, whom gossips have paired her with for some time. It seems the famous flapper has finally been caught and tamed. We congratulate the happy couple.”_

She puts down the paper again. Before she can say anything, Prudence is on the attack.

“Agatha Spurgeon telephoned me before I had even left bed this morning. She wanted to know everything about it, and made me look like a fool when I couldn’t give her any answers about my own niece. Then Petunia Fitzgerald rang, all gleeful that you – an honourable – had married a simple policeman. You know how she prides herself that even if her marriage is a disaster, at least she hasn’t _married down_.” Prudence’s voice betrays her dislike of that pride, even though it isn’t too far from her own views. “After that I had no less than seven more calls, all either curious or wanting to show their sympathy to me for having such a wayward niece.”

Phryne opens her mouth, but there is no chance she can get a word in edgeways.

“Then Guy telephoned. His friend Bertie had telegraphed the news. Even Guy, all the way away in England, knew before me!” She almost wails. “This is most inconsiderate of you, Phryne.”

Phryne’s mouth is still slightly agape, but as she hears the telephone ring again, and Mr Butler answer it swiftly, she collects herself and grabs her tea cup.

“Aunt P,” she says. “I’m just not sure if you disapprove because he’s a lowly policeman, or because it was an elopement.”

“Do I really have to choose?” her aunt says pointedly. 

“Of course you are free to disapprove of both parts, Aunt Prudence,” Phryne answers, trying to suppress a smile. “However…”

Before she can continue, Mr Butler is at the door.

“Pardon me Miss, but there have been several telephone calls for you. From Miss Charlesworth, and Mr Peters, and the treasurer at The Adventuresses’ Club. Now the Inspector is on the phone for you, if you have time.”

“Of course, Mr Butler.” Phryne puts down her cup and follows him to the waiting telephone. She grabs it eagerly and then stops to take a deep breath before putting it to her ear.

“Jack!”

“Miss Fisher.” His voice sounds tense. He is silent for a few seconds before continuing. “I have never had so many people congratulate me before in my life. I can’t even count the number of slaps I’ve been given on the back, or how many versions of describing you as a _catch_. It seems I have done something remarkable.” 

“You must have, Jack.” 

“Just imagine eloping and getting married without even knowing it yourself.” 

Even though he sounds tired, she can still hear a smile in his voice, which makes her smile in return.

“That _is_ remarkable, Inspector.”

She hears him snort and then sigh, and she can imagine exactly what he looks like in this moment: his elbow on the desk, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose resignedly. 

“Do you think someone got hold of our aliases for the weekend, and decided they were true and we really were married?” Jack asks.

“It doesn’t make sense, Jack; we signed in as Mr and Mrs Pearson. No, I think this is deliberately inaccurate.” Phryne wrinkles her nose. “I smell revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“The piece isn’t signed, but there is a photographer’s name—you remember Frederick Burns, from the tennis tournament? I think he’s wanted to find a way to get back at me for quite some time. Oh, this _is_ a diabolic way of doing it.”

“Phryne, I…” Jack starts, but someone interrupts him, and he doubles back. “I need to go. We’ll talk more tonight.”

Phryne nods, as if he can see her through the telephone line. “Don’t be late.” She hangs up.

It’s not often Phryne feels overwhelmed by events, but this morning has quickly turned into a mess. Damn that petty journalist! She can probably convince Aunt Prudence it’s a mistake, but the whole of Melbourne? She dreads the reaction of her friends, and of people she barely knows, and of people who mostly know _of_ her. It’s not easy to deny a marriage that’s been proclaimed in the paper. And how would she do it—she can’t dissociate from Jack completely, and she doesn’t want to ruin his reputation. Even if she could make them write a correction without saying too much, it wouldn’t stick as much in people’s minds as the first article, “the catch of the titled flapper”. The marriage would still linger. _In a way_ , she realises to her own horror, _in a way I am already married._

She returns to the parlour. At the same moment, Dot bursts in through the kitchen door and catches up to her with a beaming smile on her face.

“I heard the news, Miss. Although I did understand already yesterday, even if you didn’t say anything. I guess some things you just _know_ , in your heart, and I could hear it in your voices, Miss,” Dot rambles on excitedly. “Oh, but I probably I shouldn’t call you that, should I, Miss?”

“Please, Dot, you should,” Phryne says. “And you don’t have to choose between disapprovals, Aunt Prudence,” she continues as she turns to her aunt. “I am not married. We didn’t elope.”

“You didn’t elope? But the paper…”

“Made a mistake. I am still an honourable Miss and nothing else. You can be completely calm.” 

They don’t look particularly calm. Dot covers her mouth with her hand when she realises how much she has overstepped, and Aunt P’s piercing gaze travels between Phryne and her stupefied companion before she raises the tea cup to her lips to take a steadying sip.

“But that’s even worse, isn’t it, Phryne? You are _not_ married, but your relationship is openly advertised all across town.”

 

***

 

When Jack comes to Wardlow that night, he feels rather tired. Everything has been going so well between them the past months. They’ve found their roles in the partnership and in each other’s life, they’ve found a rhythm to when they see each other and what they do together. And now it’s all upended. 

He sits by her side in the chaise, fingering an empty glass, forgetting he was supposed to fill it with something drinkable.

“Mother telephoned. And Sarah,” he says. 

Sarah is one of Jack’s oldest friends, a lovely woman Phryne has come to know quite well. 

“And the Deputy Commissioner, sending on congratulations from the Commissioner himself. They were all thrilled. Sarah claimed she had known all along this would happen. Mother… mother even cried.”

He looks miserable as he turns to Phryne, who seems to not be able to meet his eyes, suddenly taking a great interest in her own hands.

“And Rosie called too. She sounded genuinely happy for me.” His voice is pained.

Phryne groans. “ _Everyone_ has read this article. _Everyone_ knows about this elopement. _Noone_ cares it hasn’t happened.”

He grunts in reply. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just touches her arm. She puts her hand over his, weaving their fingers together.

“ _The Age_ called and asked to interview me about it,” she continues. “And Mac called.”

He hears immediately from her tone this is the most important call for her; Mac, her oldest friend, someone she trusts completely and who understands everything about her.

“And?”

“She said ‘about bloody time.’” He smiles at that; it is such a typical Mac comment. “When I told her the article was lying – do you know what she said? She said that lousy tabloid has more sense than the two of us put together.”

Jack looks up to meet her eyes. He’s getting an inkling of how it might feel to be a trapped animal.

“The Commissioner said the same,” he admits. “Well, with different words, but the sentiment was the same. He said it was only a question of time before _this_ ”—he gestures between them at the word—“would become a stain on my reputation. He was glad I had seen sense and acted upon the problem in time, even if it was in a scandalous manner.” Jack flashes a small humorous smile at that; even when she isn’t involved herself, Phryne still manages to be scandalous. 

They gaze at each other. She still has his hand in hers, squeezing it slightly. Holding her hands solemnly like that, Jack thinks about the fact he has never asked her to marry him. He has never even thought about it as a reasonable thing to suggest. He knows her craving for freedom and independence, and he has come to cherish that—not only for her, but also for himself. The feeling of inadequacy he originally had, of not being able to have her and hold her in every sense of the words, has vanished a long time ago. 

But now, everything that was settled is up in the air again.

Phryne is shaken, realising she has changed identity for the world, but without her having any control of it herself. Are people thinking of her as a Mrs—a _Mrs Robinson_ , even? Even as she knows she is deeply in love with the accompanying Mr Robinson, the unfamiliar identity still makes her shudder. She has never sought to be someone’s wife. That blasted Burns; she finds her throat constricting in helplessness. 

Then she stops herself, sternly. _This is not acceptable_. She will not allow other people’s opinions to affect her this way. Whatever she does, she is not going to feel helpless. And she’s not going to keep her thoughts away from Jack. She takes a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the fireplace. 

“I have always thought of marriage as losing yourself,” she says, contemplatively. “And of the woman losing the most.”

He knows that it can be—he knows it far more intimately than he wishes he does. He has seen it in case after case at work, and he knows something of it from his own failed marriage. But he cannot believe it must always be that way, and even though he hasn’t truly considered them ever marrying, he cannot imagine Phryne giving up so much that she would lose herself—least of all to him.

“Do you really think it would change anything between us?” he asks. “Do you think it would change you?”

Her gaze is far away as she considers the question.

“I suppose… I don’t know.”

He looks at her, a short wave of panic coursing through him. He wants to reach through those fears of hers, to show her that if they would marry, they would be exactly the same persons, only husband and wife. That they are already committed and each other’s best allies, and a formalisation of that won’t destroy anything, even if it isn’t something they need either.

Instead, after a beat, he smiles wickedly.

“Of course, you’d have to learn to fetch slippers and cook dinner. Maybe take up knitting.” 

She looks at him with a sharp glint in her eyes.

“Jack Robinson, I’m fairly certain you’re more likely to do any of those things than I am.”

His smile slowly widens.

“That’s a fair guess, I suppose.”

Her eyes pierce his—that tease of a man, of course that’s what he meant to tell her. She takes the empty glass from his hand and puts it on the table, moving as close as she can on the chaise. If there’s one thing she knows about herself, it is what to do when she’s distraught. As she leans into him, she looks at him under long, enticing lashes and carefully pronounces every word with her perfectly painted lips.

“So, everyone says we’re married?” She pauses as if she needs to think for a moment. “But I don’t remember even getting a wedding night.”

Jack looks at her, trying to suss out her change of mood.

“And how would that solve our problem?” he asks, his voice low.

“It won’t. But at least we’ll have gotten something good out of it.” She caresses his knee and her smile crinkles her eyes in the most endearing way; Jack is unable to do anything but smile back at her.

“Yes?” he asks tentatively, his body responding to her soft touch.

“We’ll solve this tomorrow, Jack. Let’s enjoy tonight.” Her voice has turned dark and velvety, her smile mischievous, her eyes are darting between his eyes and lips. 

Then she dramatically holds out her arms. It takes Jack a moment to understand her meaning—that he should carry her as the bride she purportedly is. As a response to her teasing smile, he unceremoniously scoops her up in his arms and heads for the parlour door.

“You are quite the dashing, strong husband, Jack,” she purrs as she puts an arm around his neck and one hand on his bicep. He gives her a mock-chastising look.

Jack carries her swiftly up the stairs and all the way to her bed, grateful that he manages to not hit her against either the urn full of flowers in the stairs or the door to her bedroom. He places her on the cover of the bed and kisses her on the nose. She lays down, holding her arms elegantly and welcoming above her.

“You have to undress me, of course, husband. I’m simply going to lie here and bask in my innocent newly-wed bliss,” she says with a contented smile. 

That makes Jack laugh enough that he has to sit down on the bed next to her. When he just stays there, a little bit stunned by the role she’s playing, she loses her patience and sits up on her knees by his side, energetically attacking his tie. 

“That wasn’t a very long basking,” he says. 

She rolls her eyes.

“Turns out, I’m not properly made for waiting. And husbands, obviously, have to be helped rather insistently on their way.”

He takes that as the challenge it is. Quick as a cat he turns around and pushes her down on the bed, taking her hands in his so he can pin them on either side of her head as he hovers above her. 

“I guess I’ll have to make amends for that,” he suggests, his voice dark and promising.

Her eyes twinkle as she wiggles one hand out of his grip, reaching out to caress his hair. “I’m not sure how much hope there is. But I suppose you can always try.”

He doesn’t need more encouragement.

 

***

 

When Jack wakes up, very early, he feels sleepy and rather content before he remembers the shock from the day before. _We’ll solve this tomorrow_ , her voice echoes in his head. He has no solution in mind, only a belief that she can do it, that they can do it together.

He watches her as she sleeps, on her stomach with her head resting on a curved arm. She looks so small and lithe when she sleeps: like a kitten that will be ready to pounce as soon as she wakes up. His heart aches from watching her, from knowing that he’s hers. That she is, in some sense of the word, his.

He pulls on a dressing gown and goes down into the kitchen to search for some tea.

Mr Butler greets him and serves him breakfast. It doesn’t take long – not more than two slices of toast’s worth of time – before Jack decides to confide in him. 

“You are aware, Mr Butler, of the conundrum we’re in?” he asks. The butler nods politely. “The whole of Melbourne thinks we’ve eloped. The Commissioner sends me congratulations. My mother is happy enough to cry.”

Mr Butler, who is quite fond of Mrs Robinson, whom he has met several times and even shared recipes with, hums in understanding.

“That is a conundrum, sir,” he says as he puts more hot toast on Jack’s plate.

“I don’t know how to solve it,” the Inspector says wearily. 

“Well, the way I see it, sir, there are only two solutions,” Mr Butler begins, checking Jack’s willingness to listen before he continues. “The delicate nature of your alliance means you cannot simply say you didn’t marry, unless you also elect to stop seeing each other, which doesn’t seem to be your wish.” 

Jack nods in agreement. He doesn’t doubt Phryne’s feelings on that matter, and he certainly doesn’t doubt his own. 

Mr Butler pours him more tea as he continues.

“That leaves only two possibilities. Your first solution is to actually marry. That way, you can appease everyone in one simple stroke of action, even if it might not have been in your plans before.”

Jack hums noncommittally.

“The other solution is to allow people to _believe_ you are married, never talk against it, and just keep on spending time together. It is highly unlikely anyone will ask for the proof or the paperwork, especially as it has already been reported in the paper.”

“That is an excellent summary, Mr Butler,” Phryne’s slightly sleepy voice says from the kitchen door. 

She sits down next to Jack and is served toast and a steaming cup of coffee. Jack watches her as she blows into the cup to make it cool faster. 

He thinks fast, trying to weigh the two solutions against each other. “Do you think the deception would work, Miss Fisher?” he asks, and she looks at him pointedly for calling her that. 

“It might, _Inspector_ ,” she answers. “It might just about work. But are you willing to risk it?”

He sits quiet for a while, trying to wrap his mind around the idea of being together with Phryne—properly, as if they were married. And how much of a risk it would be to do that without the actual marriage. He doesn’t notice when Mr Butler exits the kitchen discreetly.

“I think I could cope with either solution,” he says finally.

When she looks at him with a relieved smile, he realises she was nervous about his answer. There is something almost unsettling about Phryne Fisher being nervous. It’s only a short glimpse of emotion; almost immediately she raises her eyebrow.

“Is that supposed to be a proposal?” she asks teasingly.

“Or, a pseudo-proposal,” he answers in kind.

She looks at him over the rim of her cup, turning serious.

“It would be an adjustment. Either way.”

He nods.

“You’d have to move in here. Either way.”

He just looks at her, tilting his head slightly. “I could do that. If you actually want me to.”

She thinks for a few seconds, then nods. “I do.”

He inhales from her deliberate use of words. Then he leans over and kisses her, a light, soft, slow touch of lips to lips, delighting in the heat from her mouth, before retreating again. He takes her hand, still warm from the coffee cup, in both of his.

“But which of the solutions would you prefer?” he asks seriously, and she smiles at him.

“Maybe we can toss coin about it.” 

He thinks she is joking, but she escapes from the grip of his hands and produces a shilling, holding it on the flat palm of her hand for him to see.

“The emu and the kangaroo together stand for marriage, King George for pretending.”

“Really?” he asks, amused by the choice of symbols, and stunned at her quick work. It seems rather absurd to put his future on a single coin; on the other hand, he knows he’ll be genuinely happy living with her either way. Maybe he can just ignore all attempts of control and let her go about this in her own way.

She holds his gaze with a broad smile on her lips, waiting for his full attention to turn to her hand before slowly, excruciatingly slowly, moving the hand down and then up, releasing the coin straight up into the air. Jack is mesmerized by the circle of silver as it flips in the light from the kitchen windows, watching this thing that will decide his future go up, up, up into the air, then turning and starting its descent again. Before it manages to come more than half-way down, Phryne catches his head in her hands and draws him towards her, capturing his lips in an all-encompassing, wet, and passionate kiss, coin forgotten as it bounces a few times on the kitchen floor before it rolls into a corner.

“Silly man,” she says as they finally retreat to catch some air. “Of course not really. We’ll just have to decide, together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Fire_Sign for beta reading and prodding! <3


End file.
